


The Twilight is Keeping Us Close to the Stars

by TheQueenAndTheBee



Series: Colder and Colder [1]
Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Can fit anywhere in canon, Character Study, Emotional Healing, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, True Love, a lot of symbolism, references to past rape, references to past sexual trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29536407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheQueenAndTheBee/pseuds/TheQueenAndTheBee
Summary: Rosalie Hale wonders at her existence, at the ways trauma makes an individual, and at what love means to her.
Relationships: Emmett Cullen/Rosalie Hale
Series: Colder and Colder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169933
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Twilight is Keeping Us Close to the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Twilight or its characters. All rights go to Stephenie Meyer. This work is purely for entertainment and no profit is being made from its publication. Please do not repost to other websites.
> 
> The title is taken from the song 'Einstein's Idea' by Johnny Flynn. 
> 
> Like a lot of people, I'm getting swept up in the Twilight Renaissance, particularly the conversations around the characterisations of the Cullens. I feel like there was so much potential to explore the backgrounds of the other Cullens (let's be honest, they're way more interesting than Edward and Bella) so I thought it would be cool to do little character studies of them and explore their personalities in a bit more depth! This is going to be a part of a series which I'll add to as and when I have time. 
> 
> This story does reference Rosalie's backstory, and although it isn't graphic please proceed with caution if this is triggering content for you. Also please bare in mind that this is just one perspective on a very difficult topic and it is not intended to undermine anyone's feelings or experiences with such subject matter.

It seemed ironic, a vampire being afraid of the dark. The night was a staple of vampire lore, a safe space for them to truly become themselves. Whilst daylight was cold and clinical, a harsh white that shone a light on their differences, highlighted them as monsters, the night was kind. It wrapped its arms around the lost and forgotten and said ‘I will protect you. Your secret is safe with me’. Rosalie felt human in the darkness, and yet that was perhaps what scared her the most.

She laid in the marital bed that she and Emmett had chosen all those years ago, back when they had just discovered one another’s touch and the pleasure it brought them. It was purely symbolic, of course, but then that symbolism meant more to her than she could ever explain. Emmett’s side was empty; he never understood why Rosalie felt the need to curl up under the satin sheets each night if it wasn’t for any other reason than to revel in one another, and so he usually went hunting with Jasper. Tonight was one such night, and Rosalie felt the cold of his empty side down to her bones. She traced her finger over the indent in the mattress and smiled, all the while keeping her face turned to the soft light of the bedside lamp. It was sacrosanct in her nighttime ritual: remove her makeup with the indulgent Elemis skincare that she’d fallen for back in the 90s, put on a nightgown of lace or silk, brush through her hair, then turn on her nightlight and climb into bed. Sometimes she would close her eyes and pretend she was sleeping. Sometimes she’d sit up and read a book. Often she would just stare at the ceiling thinking very little at all. But whatever she did, the light stayed on.

Daylight filtered through the window and stained Rosalie’s skin with glitter and gold. She grumbled and pulled her pillow over her head. She had never been a morning person when she was human and the trait remained even now, sleep or not. The muffled sound of the door creaking open caught her attention, and she listened to the footfall. Emmett’s gait was a duality; heavy yet delicate, like when someone dropped a cushion on a carpeted floor. She smiled as the bed groaned under his weight and he slid his arms around her waist.  
  
“Morning sleepyhead,” he whispered, his tone playful and sweet.  
  
“You smell like cows,” she grumbled, lifting the pillow slightly to glare at him. His tight curly hair was ruffled from the hunt, tiny flecks of blood crusting around his mouth. She sat up and ran her tongue across the seam of his lips, tasting the animal and the musky flavour that was entirely Emmett. He moaned gently and pulled her closer to him, running his hands along the curve of her body. He touched her as though she was a Faberge egg, fragile and precious and entirely too far away. That had always been his way, even before her past was ever mentioned. He was a colossus of muscle and sinew, but his hands were delicate. Those same hands fluttered their way to the hem of her nightie, rubbing the lace between his forefinger and thumb.  
  
“This might be my favourite outfit of yours,” he murmured, sweeping his hungry golden eyes over her form. Sometimes Rosalie found herself mourning the blue they had been when he was human, the bright cerulean colour of the sky after heavy rain.   
  
“You say that about everything I wear, Em,” she huffed and his face broke out into that lopsided grin that had stolen her heart the minute he’d woken up into his new life.  
  
“You’re right. Maybe it isn’t the clothes, it’s who’s wearing them.”  
  
“You’re so cheesy,” she laughed as he nuzzled her neck, kissing where her pulse point would have been.  
  
“You bring out the worst in me, angel.” His face moved down to her stomach, pushing her dress all the way up to run his lips across the pale expanse of skin there. Rosalie gasped and tangled her fingers in his curls, slowly guiding him down, down, down. She turned her head to the side, overwhelmed with sensation and emotion and the dwindling lamplight beside her.

*

Rosalie was sprawled out on the sofa in the sitting room of the main house, comparing the specs of a GV70 2.5 Gasoline Turbo against the 3.5 Turbo Sport package as a gift for Emmett, when Alice danced into the room. It was her only method of movement, and Rosalie often wondered if maybe she had been a ballet dancer at any point in her life before joining the Cullens. Silently she sat by Rosalie’s feet, fiddling with the cuffs of her emerald velvet flares. Rosalie raised an eyebrow.   
  
“Hi?”   
  
“It’s the anniversary of your turning tomorrow,” Alice replied, smiling slightly. “You’re not to leave town.”  
  
Rosalie blanched and closed the lid of her MacBook. “Who said I was going to leave town?” Alice shot her a dry look, tapping her temple playfully. Ah, right. Rosalie sighed. “I really hate that little talent of yours, you know?”  
  
“I know.” Alice’s smile widened as she draped herself across her sister, engulfing her in a strange sort of sideways hug. “You can talk to me if you need to.”  
  
“Yeah,” Rosalie muttered, carding her fingers through Alice’s short crop. Whilst her hair had the healthy sheen that all vampires did, the ragged cut was a haunting reminder of what life had been like for her sister before turning. It was that misery that pervaded the Olympic clan that had made Rosalie decide to stay in the first place; they weren’t bonded by blood, but by a sheer sense of survival that pervaded their entire existences.   
  


One of her most treasured memories was a year after her turning. She and Esme had been watching Fourth of July fireworks whilst Edward and Carlisle were on some pretentious academic excursion that neither of them had much interest in. Rosalie had watched the reds and the blues twinkle against the velvet expanse of the sky, and wished for nothing more than the ability to cry. Esme had looked at her with that sad smile that always seemed to linger on her face.   
  
“The thing I loved most about holidays was that they were something to celebrate with your family,” Rosalie said, taking a deep breath. “They were limited, so you had to make them count. I had all these elaborate plans for the traditions I’d establish with my children. Like today, we would all make apple pie in the morning so that we could eat it after setting off the fireworks later in the day. We’d all write our names with sparklers and we’d sing our favourite songs and if it was warm enough we’d camp under the stars.”  
  
Esme took her hand, a burst of green refracting in her pupils. “Today would have been my son’s thirteenth birthday.”   
  
Rosalie stared at her, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of what to say. Her newfound mother turned back up to the universe above them, the stars all the more brighter for the simulated glitter that had been thrown amongst them. “I would have lassoed the moon for that boy. I settled for feeding him my milk, though, and dreaming of all the things we’d do to celebrate when we had the chance. But then, holding him was enough.” She looked back to Rosalie, cupping her face in her hands. “We have an eternity, Rose. An infinite amount of possibilities and opportunities. We need to make those count just as much as the finite. If anything, I feel like death should make us all the more determined to live.”   
  
They sat there well until the sparks became powder and the sun began to crescent on the horizon, holding hands all the while.

Rosalie sat on the pile of designer suitcases, trailing her feet idly along the wooden floor. Outside was dark and her nightlight was on, only this time Emmett was sat on the bed watching her. Silence was something that had become sacred to Rosalie, and it had been a blissful surprise to discover that, despite putting most cartoon parrots to shame with his conversational skills, Emmett appreciated the quiet too.   
  
“I’m glad you chose to stay,” he said eventually, pushing himself onto his knees so that he could lean forward and drape his arms around her shoulders.   
  
Rosalie leant into his touch, closing her eyes. “It was only a throwaway idea. I wouldn’t have been gone for long.”  
  
“I know. But what kind of husband would I be if I left you alone during this?” He placed his chin atop her head, burying his nose in her hair. He loved the expensive shampoo she used, like strawberry milkshake.   
  
“It’s just… it’s hard, you know?” she swallowed, turning to face him. “It was decades ago. They’re dead, they’re gone. No one can hurt me now, and yet – yet I still sleep with the light on.”   
  
Emmett’s eyes softened as he took her in. He was so beautiful, so kind, so entirely _hers_. She wanted him to be enough to forget what had happened. She loved him with the entirety of her dead-end heart, with every infinite possibility Esme whispered to her all those years ago, and yet if it never happening meant sacrificing Emmett there was a part of her – a hidden, secret part - that would have been willing to let him go.   
  
He kissed her eyelids, then the bridge of her nose, and Rosalie knew that he knew it too. And what’s more, he didn’t blame her. “That nightlight isn’t going anywhere, Rose. And neither am I.”  
  
Rosalie wrapped her arms around him and closed her eyes, taking a breath she didn’t need but savoured regardless. She went to bed with her husband that night and slept in his arms, bathed in light. 


End file.
